I finally made it to Devon after what felt like the world's longest drive from Bristol. The sat-nav decided to have a midlife crisis just past Honiton, sending me down a narrow lane that was more cow path than road. I ended up reversing into a hedge while a farmer in wellies waved his arms like he was directing an orchestra. "First time in these parts, eh?" he chuckled, helping me untangle the wing mirror. Turned out his name was Reg, and he insisted on a quick chat about the best pasty spots in Axminster before letting me go. That little mishap set the tone – quirky locals everywhere you turn.

Pulling up to the holiday cottage, I was buzzing with that proper holiday anticipation, wondering if the hot tub would live up to the photos. First impressions? Spot on. It's a cosy detached place with a private garden that feels like your own little slice of countryside, all tucked away near Axminster but close enough to wander into the buzz of village life.

No sooner had I unpacked than I met my first proper character: Mrs. Jenkins from next door, who popped over with a Tupperware of her famous scones. "Made 'em this morning, love – none of that shop-bought rubbish," she said with a wink, launching into a tale about her late husband who once tried racing the village sheep on his mobility scooter. We ended up chatting for an hour over tea in the garden, her Devon accent thick as clotted cream. She reckoned the best cream teas were at the tearoom just down the lane in the village – and don't get her started on the seagulls pinching chips from tourists at the nearby beach car park.

The next day, strolling into Axminster for supplies, I bumped into Tom, the butcher with a laugh like a foghorn. "What'll it be, holidaymaker? A bit of Devon ruby for the barbie?" He regaled me with stories of the local hunt ball where the vicar once danced the conga with the pub landlord. Tom swore by his special sausages for a fry-up, and I left with enough meat to feed a small army, plus an invite to the pub quiz that night. I didn't win – my knowledge of 80s tractor models was woefully lacking – but chatting with the regulars about the time the river flooded and they all kayaked to the shop for pints was pure gold.

Even a gentle wander along the nearby paths brought encounters. Old Bert, fishing by the stream, shared his wisdom on spotting otters: "Patience, lad, and a quiet word with the water." He looked at me sideways and added, "Mind you, you're the first guest this year not to ask about celebrities. Refreshing." I couldn't help but reflect there in the moment – city life back home is all rush and screens, but here, these chats with proper characters make you slow down, listen, really connect. No agendas, just stories and a shared nod to the ridiculousness of it all.

By the end of the week, lounging in that hot tub under the stars, I was plotting my return. Devon's not just the views; it's the people who make it unforgettable. If you're after a holiday full of laughs and lore, this corner's got it in spades.